


These Ones Were Even Cured in Red Wine!

by oneill



Category: The Tick (1994)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneill/pseuds/oneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the fic_promptly prompt: The Tick, Tick & Arthur, preparing for a visit from Dot</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Ones Were Even Cured in Red Wine!

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write about tidying up the apartment instead--window cleaner! limescale remover! FURNITURE POLISH!!--but it refused to gel the way I wanted. Maybe some other time, haha.

"Tick," Arthur said, as tactfully as he could, "I don't think Neil is going to want pasta salad."

The Tick looked up from cubing hard salami. His antennae twitched. "But, Arthur!" he said, dropping the knife and scooping up two jars and a plastic lidded cup from the counter. "There are _three different kinds_ of olives. And they didn't come as a prepackaged medley--No, sir! I picked them out _myself_!" He cradled them like a trio of extremely premature infants.

"I know, Tick, and I really appreciate it." Arthur reached up to put a consoling hand on the Tick's massive shoulder. "I just think, after the, er . . . incident, Neil might see pasta salad a little differently."

"Hm." The Tick set the olives down, an expression of deep contemplation on his face. "You may be right about that, chum. One bad experience can cause even the most innocuous of appetizers to leave a bitter taste." He crouched suddenly and gripped the counter, his eyes just barely peering over it. "But the _olives_!" he lamented, his already deep voice dropping a full, remorseful octave.

Arthur sighed and reached for a cookbook, flipping back to fan through the index. "Let's see. Olives, olives, olives . . . I guess I could try making puttanesca. We had spaghetti the _last_ time Dot came over for dinner, though. And I don't think we have any capers or anchovies . . ."

"Not a problem, my culinary compatriot," the Tick said, springing back up, a grin restored to his face. He clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder and nearly buckled his knees. "I shall procure the required ingredients while you master this elusive puttanesca of which you speak."

"Can you pick up some artichoke hearts and peperoncinis while you're at it? I can use the rest of the olives for antipasto."

"Consider it done, Arthur. I'm on the hunt!"

"Thanks, Tick." Arthur tied on an apron and picked up where the Tick had left off cubing salami. "My wallet's on the coffee table."

"Indeed, it is!" And the Tick marched out of the apartment with enough aplomb to justify _five_ kinds of olives.


End file.
